Beg
by terrified
Summary: A one-shot, prompt-fill. Molly has finally reached her limit with Sherlock's maddening and confusing ways. When it seems she is going to disappear for good, Sherlock comes to terms with what is really going on in his head, and also his heart.


_**A/N: **A piece in response to this tumblr prompt:_

**_Prompt: sherlock gets really angry at molly because he realises he's in love with her and so he kicks her out of his flat. She's confused and upset. Ends in sherlolly! Please please please :))) _**

_This one was a tricky prompt to fill, I have to admit. Simply because there were so many ways this could have happened. For some reason, a particular line of Irene Adler's stuck in my mind, something she had said to our great detective. I found inspiration in that. Hence, this piece. x_

* * *

**Beg**

"And that's…..that then," said Molly, a spark of glee in her voice as she watched the final drop of acid fall into the conical flask, marking the end of the titration experiment she and Sherlock had been working on in the kitchen.  
"Good." was all Sherlock said. He quietly made note of the results as he sat sullenly by the kitchen table.  
"You don't look very happy about the results…" Molly remarked, as she unclamped the burette for cleaning.  
"I don't believe my mood is necessary for the experiment, Molly," came his reply.

Molly merely ignored him, just short of rolling her eyes at him. He was in one of those moods again. Every time they reached the end of an experiment or were tying up the final ends of a report, sullen Sherlock would surface and it really was quite a pain.

"Well, I'm happy because I enjoyed it," she said finally, as she walked over to the sink.  
"I'm glad you…_enjoyed _it…" he retorted, his voice taking a slightly harder edge.  
"Why are you being so…" Molly exclaimed, turning the tap off and turning to face him. "What's gotten into you?"  
"Why are you always here at my flat badgering me about how I feel anyway?" he asked, almost starting to shout at her.  
"What….I don't…" Molly took a deep breath and tried to keep her own anger from rising, "_You _are the one who started this whole, after-work experiments business. _You_ are the one who stopped me working extra shifts so that I could come here and do these experiments with _you_. Me being here is _your_ doing. So your question, Sherlock, is very, very stupid."  
"Me? Stupid?" he said, getting up from his seat.

He strode over to where she stood by the sink, the burette still in her hand. If Molly had looked closer there was a small glint of panic in his clear eyes. However, he hid it well behind an icy, cold veneer as he glared at her.

"Get. Out." he whispered fiercely behind clenched teeth.  
"What?" she replied, taken aback.  
"Perhaps I should shout. That would make it clearer. I said _get out_." he repeated, his tone was as sharp as a knife to her jugular.

Bewildered and angry, Molly left the burette in the sink and turned away from him. She reached for her bag, grabbed her coat and made her way to the door.

"You can wash the bloody burette yourself, you clot." she muttered angrily to herself.  
"What's that?" he exclaimed from the kitchen.

Without bothering to answer, Molly stormed out of the flat. She made a mental note never to step back into the flat again. Experiment or no experiment, she was not going to tolerate any of this unnecessary rudeness and illogical behaviour. For someone who prided himself on his cut-throat rationality, he was, in fact, the most irrational person Molly had ever met.

"Never again, Sherlock Holmes." she told herself as she rode back in a cab, "Never again."

Sherlock heard the engine of Molly's cab that sped away and he walked slowly towards his window. Carefully, he parted the drapes by an inch, just so he could sneak a peek. He caught only the sight of the cab turning the corner. Sighing frustratedly, he sank into his armchair, rubbed his temples and shut his eyes to think.

"Great. Now she's left, and even earlier…" he muttered to himself. "Sherlock, you _clot_."

* * *

It was four o'clock in the afternoon, the time which Molly usually turned up for experiments. As a way of apologising, Sherlock had cleaned and prepped all the equipment and set them up on the table. He had even armed himself with an offer to wash up after they were done. Today, they were going to play with some skin samples he had managed to take from her a week ago. Having frozen them solid, he had a few exciting tests he wanted to run on them.

He sat in his chair, as he always did and listened out for the sound of her footsteps. Molly rarely took a cab to his flat at Baker Street, choosing instead to go by tube and to walk. As he was well-acquainted with her gait, he was able to match that to her footsteps, allowing him to distinguish hers from everyone else's that traversed the pavement below.

Four-thirty.

Five o'clock.

Twenty minutes past five.

Five twenty-five.

Five twenty-eight.

Five twenty-…

_Are you coming?_ - _SH_

_No. Don't text me anymore._ - _MH_

_Why? - SH_

_Why am I not coming? Or why don't I want you to text me anymore? - MH_

_Well, both. - SH_

_Because I am sick of you and your mood swings. - MH_

_I do not have mood swings.. - SH_

_I do not want to have this conversation anymore. - MH_

_I'll clean up after today. Every single thing. - SH_

* * *

It was almost midnight and Sherlock had not moved from his armchair. He had his mobile phone perched precariously on the armrest. Despite the fact that his phone would sound and its screen would glow, his gaze constantly shifted to it in anticipation. However, hours had passed since his last message to Molly and his phone had not made a sound, not lighting up even once.

"Mood swings…" he muttered to himself.

Sherlock had no clue what Molly was on about. They had such a perfect system going. She would come over from Bart's, full of new knowledge from her day's work. And as they worked on his self-devised experiments and research topics in his flat, she would indulge him by telling her all of her day's findings, narrating any interesting cases she might have encountered. Molly worked with precision and such swiftness it never failed to impress him. Sherlock marvelled at the way she sometimes spotted anomalies far before he could, connecting dots far quicker than he could. It was a thrill to watch her work, just as it was a thrill to work alongside her. In fact, just being with her made sense to him. It restored balance to his universe. Molly had become his secret high.

_Oh._ The thought struck him. _A secret high._

Without her, he would crash. After each experiment, after the hours of working beside her, as she cleaned the pipettes or dismantled the bunsen burners, as his day with Molly reached an end, Sherlock was headed for a crash.

"Mood swings…" he repeated.

* * *

From previous experience, Sherlock knew that calling on people at close to one o'clock in the morning would most likely result in a punch to the face. However, his day of waiting had left him antsy and he simply had to talk to Molly. It was half past midnight and here he was, knocking on her door. When there was no response, he tapped it louder, rapping his knuckles hard against it. Suddenly, he heard the doorknob click as the door was opened a tentative inch. He was greeted by Molly's wide and slightly panicking brown eyes peering from the tiny gap.

"Sherlock?" she gasped in disbelief.  
"Hmm, yes, hello, Molly," he said.  
"What are you doing here?" she asked, frowning in irritation.  
"I'll tell you, if you let me in."  
"No," she said, stepping back to shut the door, "Don't tell me anything."  
"Molly. Please." he said, wedging his foot between the door and its frame. "Please."

It seemed Sherlock always got what he wanted. Furthermore, Molly was too tired to argue with him. She was glad he was not an intruder, but she was not pleased to see him. She sat herself on the sofa, pulling her robe tightly around herself and stifled a yawn.

"Well," she said, rubbing her temples, "What do you want?"  
"I came to tell you that…I know what you mean. And I am sorry."  
"If you could just be less cryptic, Sherlock?" Molly asked with a sigh, her fingers not leaving her temples.  
"I get upset when you leave." he said in an unexpected burst of honesty.  
"When I leave? When I leave what?" she asked, confused.  
"When you…leave Baker Street.." he muttered, a small flush of heat was creeping up his neck, "I like it when you're at Baker Street, and I get upset when you leave."

Molly removed her fingers from her temples and took a good look at the detective who, a minute ago was standing in the middle of her flat, now crouched in front of her.

"Our afternoons, when you make your gruesome jokes, when you tell me about mouldy eyeballs and finding bits of plastic in people's gullets…" he began, "They are the best things, Molly."  
"Why are you telling me this?" she asked him. Her tone had softened slightly as she continued to stare at him curiously.  
"So that you can understand my mood swings, not that they're excusable but—"  
"You can be sure they're bloody not…" she interrupted. Her eyes betrayed a little glint of amusement.  
"Molly, I need our afternoons at Baker Street. They help me think, they keep me sharp and they keep me sane."  
"You can always do experiments on your own, Sherlock," Molly said, getting up from the sofa.

She was grateful for his apology, but his rather emotional confessions were a little unnerving. He was, after all, Sherlock Holmes. Molly began to walk back to her room, intending to tell the detective to let himself out, when she turned to him and flashed a gentle smile.

"You don't need me, Sherlock," she said, her brown eyes softening, "You'll be fine. Goodnight."

When he saw her turn her back towards him and head to her room, he leapt from his position and rushed to stop her, grabbing her by the wrist.

"It's not the experiments, Molly. _You _help me think, _you_ keep me sharp," he rattled on, frustrated, "And most of all, you keep me sane."  
"I don't know why you're saying these things, Sherlock, it's not like you," she said with a laugh but refused to face him.  
"Molly, please…"  
"Please what?"  
"Please come back."  
"No."

Gently, she slipped her wrist out of his hold and carried on towards her bedroom door. Sherlock's eyes widened in horror as the reality of losing Molly properly sunk in. This was probably a fate worse than her dying in his arms. Watching her walk away from him, hearing her refuse him, was more painful than he realised. It seemed he was not such a machine after all.

He rushed to her doorway, standing between it, blocking her path to her bedroom.

"Sherlock…" she began, exasperated. She averted her gaze, refusing to look at him.  
"Are you expecting me to beg?" he whispered.

Sighing, she tried to nudge her way past him. It really was a little too much drama for one a.m. in the morning and Molly was having none of it. When she reached forward, attempting to shove him one side with both arms, Sherlock seized her in his, pulling her close to him.

His heart was racing in her ears and Molly was stunned. It was easy to forget that Sherlock had a heart. Yet, here it was, thrashing wildly beneath his ribcage, every rapid beat as clear as day to Molly.

"Do I have to beg?" he asked again, not once loosening his grip on her.  
"Maybe…" she answered, slipping her arms around him.  
"Please, Molly…" he begged quietly.  
"No," she answered, her lips grazing the fabric of his shirt.  
"Why?" he asked, as he gently kissed her hair.  
"Beg. Again." she said firmly, tightening her own hold around him.  
"Please…" he repeated, now reaching to kiss her on the tip of her ear.

Molly pulled away from him and looked up at his face, it was not the Sherlock Holmes she recognised. His eyes were glistening with emotion and his face was almost warm, human. Reaching for his face, she tiptoed and kissed him gently on the lips, allowing their lips to graze tentatively at first, before properly pressing hers against his.

"No…" she whispered, as their mouths parted.  
"Please…" he asked, almost imploring.  
"No." she answered, kissing him again.  
"Come back…" he begged, his mind starting to blur from their proximity.  
"No," she continued, giving him another kiss.  
"Please, Molly…"  
"No…"

There was no chance for Sherlock to beg anymore. They locked lips one final time and it never seemed to stop. Sherlock drank every bit of Molly in, relishing the perfect contouring of her body against his own. This was the most sensational high that had ever coursed through his veins. Sherlock was grateful that he had gone to look for her, and that he had begged.

* * *

The next morning, Molly had miraculously awoken despite a rather sleepless night and headed out to work. Sherlock awoke drowsily in her bed, only to find a note on his neatly folded clothes.

"See you at Baker Street. Usual time. I'll bring the femoral arteries, you bring the wine."

He folded the note and smiled. She was staying for dinner. As he got dressed, he hummed peacefully to himself as he attempted to deduce the time it would take to have Molly come to Baker Street for good.

If he had to beg, he would not mind in the least.

**END**


End file.
